


the potential of broken things

by icarusinflight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Harry Potter, Drinking, Ex-Auror Draco Malfoy, Explicit Sexual Content, H/D Erised 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Intercrural Sex, Kneazles (Harry Potter), M/M, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/pseuds/icarusinflight
Summary: "Can you feel that? Some things want to be what they once were. The original spell is still there, and it wants to work again. All it takes is a little push and then"—Draco clicks his fingers of his free hand—"snap, everything will go back into place."Harry's feeling lost, but he finds Draco in a shop full of (not broken, just waiting to be repaired) items.He stays a while.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 50
Kudos: 446
Collections: H/D Erised 2020





	the potential of broken things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MalenkayaCherepakha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalenkayaCherepakha/gifts).



> Dear MalenkayaCherepakha, you are an absolute fucking treasure. And I only hope this gift will bring a smile to your face. Fly your flag babe, whatever that might be. 
> 
> Many thanks to all the people who supported me in the creation of this fic. And all my people's animals who supported _them_ in supporting me (and my own animals!)

The shop looks wholly unassuming from the outside. Harry's not even sure what it is really. There's a sign that says _The Black Kneazle_ which could mean anything. The door is ornate, a wooden frame and glass with some sort of metal weaving across it. The door looks older than the rest of the shop, and stands out from the rest of the buildings in the way it's _not_ trying to stand out; no 'open' or 'come in' sign. Harry leans in to look through the glass, and it seems clear from a distance, but when he gets close there's something obscuring his view, a slight fuzziness like a thick fog made firm, a hint of a spell at the root of the obscurity.

Harry leans back again, taking in the shop and another look up and down the street.

He's not exactly in the sticks. Next door there's a bookshop, and he passed a café on the way, a floating _coffee and cake special_ sign that had been spelled to always look like it was front on, regardless of the angle. There's nothing that's particularly out of place in the area, but Harry can't help his slight sense of unease.

He'd probably give it a miss—only Luna had suggested he come here, sliding the card into his hand at their last _Family Dinner_ , and if Harry hasn't at least checked it out by dinner next Wednesday, Luna will know.

She just will.

It's not like Luna would send him somewhere dangerous, or even useless; of the people he trusts implicitly, Luna's on a very short list. Sometimes above even Ron, who, for all that he loves Harry and would never _intentionally_ send him off on a wild goose chase, sometimes has a very different idea to Harry of what's _interesting_.

He'd blame dad-brain, if only it hadn't been an issue for as long as Harry's known him. Love him for it, but sometimes he's a bit off target.

But Luna… somehow her recommendations always see him right, even if they seem a little odd sometimes.

Like now, standing in front of a mysterious door.

One more glance and Harry notices a little rainbow flag in the corner, the edges rolling over like it's waving in the wind, and _oh_ that might be why Luna suggested it.

There's only one way to find out.

Harry takes a deep breath, reaches out his hand—for the handle, a long one-piece thing, and there's still no sign of whether the shop is open or closed, but Harry pulls on it anyway. 

The door comes easy, a relief. 

With the door open Harry can see a ramp leading into the shop and up, not more than a step. The ramp goes about a yard or so inside, but the rest of the shop is still obscured.

Nothing else for it. Harry holds his breath and steps through the doorway.

Ten years with the Aurors has ingrained in Harry a bodily reaction to the feeling of stepping through a spell, and this time is no different. The spell brushes over him, and even though he can feel there's no darkness behind it, that doesn't ease his discomfort. He's been caught out before by spells that seem benign, only to find wizards using them in ways Harry could never even imagine.

The limits of people's cruelty knows no boundary.

Harry's hand reaches for his wand, not into his pocket, but rubbing his fingers over it, feeling the familiar pattern of whorls and bumps beneath his fingertips. That's enough to ground Harry, to find some comfort in the knowledge that he's ready—should anything happen. It's probably not healthy to think about drawing your wand every time you walk through a minor charmed doorway, but no one's here to judge him. 

The shop is empty, or empty enough.

From his position in the doorway Harry can't see anyone, only the organised clutter of the shop. Every space as far as Harry can see is occupied with rows of cabinets filled with various items. There's everything from jewellery and plates to furniture, and an old grandfather clock stands along the far wall. There are lights hanging from the roof, and even what looks like wrought iron fencing leaning against a balustrade. 

The shop looks bigger than it had on the outside, but it's a magic shop, so that's not unexpected. Does the shop have the approval for an Extension Charm? Harry shakes the thought from his head. It doesn't matter either way—it's not Harry's job to enforce these things anymore.

"Come in or don't," a voice calls out, distant and echoing in the shop. And _oh_ , it makes sense now why Luna would send him here. "But you better not let the Kneazle out."

There's no Kneazle in sight, but there's also no point standing around in the door.

Harry steps inside the shop, hand falling from the door and letting it fall shut behind him. 

Inside, the shop has a crowdedness which could be oppressive but isn't. On the walls are clocks, frames, and mirrors. Some of the frames have artwork, some are empty, and there are a few which seem to have been blocked out, black material hanging in front of images Harry can't see. 

Harry continues to move through the shop, looking around. The place would be a nightmare to catalogue, he thinks. There are more things than he can see, items Harry doesn't even know the name for, all protected by glass. It's obvious there's a system, groups of items kept together, and everything is laid out perfectly, obviously done with care. The shelves are full, but not cluttered, and organised so carefully. 

Harry stops to look at a shelf, filled with glasses, bowls and plates. There are a pair of cups, intricately carved out of a type of stone—one Harry can't identify, but he's not trying to really, he's just admiring them. The carving on them is astonishingly detailed, and Harry wants to reach out and feel the carving beneath his fingertips, feel all the intricacies, the hard work someone put into the cups once, many years ago. Without even thinking of it, his fingers come up, reaching for them.

His fingers brush against the glass and the spell resting in it. It's like a softness against his skin, a light touch that speaks of more, but it's the subtleness of the spell that stands out. It's obviously a protection spell, but it's gentle, not repelling but resting against his skin, like the soft touch of a silk dress. The spell's not one that Harry knows, but even without knowing he can tell it's been applied expertly.

There's a temptation to try and push at it, to test the barrier, but instead Harry pulls his fingers away, leaving a smudge on the glass of his fingertips, a smear from his palm. Guilt stabs at him a little, and he winces, leaving the cups behind.

He continues to move through the shop. The shop is a bit like a labyrinth, and Harry feels utterly surrounded as he moves through, completely swallowed up by the shop. It's larger than it appeared outside, most likely the result of some fancy expansion spell work, but there's something else, too, a feeling that Harry can't put his finger on. He's usually good at picking up on the small details, listening to his gut feelings—it's essential in his line of work. He has to be able to read a room, but when Harry looks around the shop there are just _things_. Nothing in the room feels dangerous—instead it feels… cared for.

Finally, Harry turns a corner and finds a desk, and behind it, sits the owner of the voice from earlier.

Draco Malfoy.

It’s been months since Harry last saw Draco. Not that he’s been keeping track. Except that of course he knows how long it's been. It was impossible to miss the fact that, as far as they'd all been aware, one day Draco had just not come into work. There'd been no discussion about it, and the most that had been said at the next Auror Office Departmental Meeting was that Draco had left the force. Not even Draco's partner had been willing to elaborate—something Harry had respected and been simultaneously extremely annoyed by.

It's made work a little less interesting, with no one to joke with in the mornings, no one to tease about tea so strong it could put hair on your chest. Mornings with Draco were _fun_.

There might have also been—he might have thought—

Harry thinks there might have been something more to it, now that he looks back on it. There's a reason Harry's been feeling less motivated at his job for the last six months. 

Harry takes the moment to look at Draco now after six months of not seeing him. He's sitting at a desk, head bent down over his work, and even from here Harry can see the cup of tea by his left hand. It's familiar in a way that sends warmth through his stomach. That's where the familiarity ends though. 

His hair's grown out, hanging down over his eyes, and he's not in Auror robes, or the fancy suits he'd wear whenever they were dragged along to a fancy event. He's in a shirt that could be fancy, but even from Harry's distance he can see it's hanging loose, buttons open. Harry feels underdressed suddenly, in his jeans and an old t-shirt that's seen better days, one of the silly ones Ron started buying him, with _What's up witches?_ emblazoned across the front. He hadn't even thought about it when he got dressed this morning, but now he really wishes he had. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Never Thinks Things Through—although to be fair, he hadn't really expected to be crossing paths with one of the poshest kids from school.

Harry can see Draco's working on something, a tool in his hand, and Harry can't tell what it is, but he can tell what it's not—a wand, and oh, that's interesting.

"Um," Harry says, because there's only so long you can stand around silently watching someone, and Harry's definitely passed that by a mile. "Hi."

Draco's hands still and he looks up, slowly. Harry feels a slight satisfaction at the look of pure shock on Draco's face. It's a rare delight, something Harry treasures every time he sees it, the fact that Harry's caught Draco _out_. It's only a moment before Draco's face schools into a reserved look, tinged with something like curiosity. The movement of Draco's hands draws Harry's attention as Draco places the tool down then sits up straight, the sort of straight that Harry always wonders at—the sort of straight that probably comes from governesses and never trying to slouch to avoid attention— and folds his hands together on the desk, a movement Harry's seen a hundred times before.

It sends a shot of warmth through Harry's body. This is Draco, and he might look different, but he's still the Draco Harry's grown familiar with, the Draco that complains about tea and shoddy paperwork, and the proper use of a colon.

Harry hadn't (he had, but he just hadn't wanted to admit it) realised how much he's missed it.

"Fancy seeing you here," Harry says, for lack of anything better to say. Harry Potter, going on thirty and still doesn't know how to start a conversation. Maybe he should go to the seminar _how to have difficult conversations_ that Hermione has recommended. Every other conversation feels like a difficult one. "Nice shop," Harry adds, quickly.

"It is," Draco agrees. "What are you doing in it?" His tone isn't suspicious, more curious than anything.

"A little birdie suggested I check it out," Harry says.

"Ah." Draco nods. "Luna."

"Luna."

The silence draws out, and Harry's never been very good with a silence. "She suggested I check it out. She—she didn't say you'd be here." It feels important to Harry that he says this. This wasn't Harry trying to track down Draco, even if he'd been curious and tempted to try. If Draco didn't want to be found, Harry wasn't going to be the one to try and track him down.

He doesn't do that anymore.

Draco nods.

"So what have you been up to then? Working in a shop? I wouldn't have imagined that."

"I needed a change," Draco says. "When Pansy suggested we go in on a shop together, it seemed like that might be the right thing."

"Quite the rabbit warren you've got here. Don't you worry about people stealing things? It's not like you could stop them all the way back here."

"No," Draco responds, without looking up from his work, hands still working. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Harry takes a step further, trying to look at what Draco has in front of him—a machine of some sort. Harry can't tell any further, and why did he even think he'd be able to tell in the first place? "I'd invite anyone to try and make their way out of the shop without paying what they owe. It would make my afternoon."

There's a small noise, and suddenly a flash of black, and Harry steps back, hand already reaching for his pocket, his wand. 

"Must you _now_?" Draco asks, and Harry freezes, hand stuck almost to his pocket, but it's not him Draco's talking to.

On the desk is a black shadow of a beast.

Draco places down his tools, finally dragging his attention away from whatever he'd been working—and then the shadow moves closer to him. Draco hurriedly pushes the tools and his work away, and not a moment too soon as the black shadow drops into the space only just vacated.

"You really are the most inconvenient of lovers, Miss Black."

"Miss Black?"

Draco winces visibly. 

"I didn't choose it," he says, almost apologetically, like it's important, and Harry supposes it is, to Draco. "Her name is her own: Black."

The cat—or Kneazle it looks more like—spreads her body out across the desk. Draco reaches down, scratching at the animal's chin, before stroking down her body. 

"The Black Kneazle," Harry says, with sudden awareness, and the Kneazle opens her eyes and looks up at him, somehow looking both acknowledging and disdainful. Draco strokes her body again, before rubbing at her chin, and the eyes drop closed again. "The shop is named after a Kneazle?"

"She was here first," Draco says, with a pointed look, like that makes any sense, and he gives her a long pat. "It was hers long before it was ours." He gives her another long pat, and this time when he brings his hand up to her chin she bumps her head softly against his hand.

Draco smooths his hand down her back again before she stands up, giving a little stretch and shake.

"Fine," Draco says, when she walks away from Draco with a flick of her tail at his shoulder. "Grumpy bint."

She gives a what can only be interpreted as a snarky flick of the tail in his direction, missing his face by not more than an inch, and of course Draco's Kneazle would be cheeky.

She walks across the bench to Harry and sits pointedly at the edge closest to him, looking at him expectantly. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches his hand out tentatively, half expecting a swipe. He's not had much experience with Kneazles outside of Crookshanks—who is probably not a very representative example of his breed (or half-breed).

But Black doesn't swipe, instead lifting up to push into Harry's hand. She stands up for Harry to pat her, arching up into his hand. Draco humphs behind him, but Harry pays him no mind, patting her again as she strikes up a rumbling purr. 

After half a dozen or so pats she turns her back, dodging away from Harry's hand to walk past Draco, knocking her head against his shoulder again before jumping up to a high shelf behind him. She turns around to look back over the shop, lying down so that her long black fluffy paws hang over the edge of the shelf. She starts licking at her fur, and Harry gets the distinct feeling of dismissal.

"Pay her no mind," Draco says, pulling his work back towards him, picking up the tool in his hand. From his closer position Harry can see now that it's a miniature spanner—something Harry wouldn't have expected Draco to know the name of, let alone how to use it. "She's a fickle lover."

"What is that?" he asks, leaning over the bench a little to get a better look. It looks like a box of some sort, but there are bits of it laid across the bench. Even from here Harry can tell all the pieces have been placed carefully, an order that Harry can't discern, but he's sure has some sort of meaning to Draco.

"A star box . It has a spell in it that creates the night sky on the ceiling. This one however"—Draco taps the miniscule spanner against the side of the box—"is broken." 

"Couldn't you just cast a _Reparo_?" Harry asks—even Harry knows how to cast a passable _Reparo_ , as it's essential in his line of work, and just generally in his life. His kitchen mugs have been _Reparo_ 'd more times than he'd like to think of, enough that some of the cracks refuse to fade, like a passive-aggressive statement on his treatment of them. He can't remember ever seeing Draco cast one, but he's sure Draco must have.

"No," Draco says, a hint of reproach in his words, and the Kneazle stops her work to stare down at Harry. Harry gets the feeling she's also judging him.

"Okay," Harry tries to backpedal. "I just thought it might be easier." 

Draco sighs, places his tools down again, and looks up at Harry.

"Have you repaired an item with an enchantment before?" Draco asks. He hasn't actually, Harry realises. The items he repairs are usually his own. The department has a strict _turn in_ policy when it comes to damaged magical items, which Harry's never examined much before, happy enough to leave it to someone else. He shakes his head, and Draco continues. " _Reparo_ is fine for many items, but not if there's an enchantment present. If I were to cast a _Reparo_ on this, it would dispel the original charm placed on it."

"But then couldn't you just recast the spells?" Harry asks.

"I could, but then it wouldn't be the same item." Draco says, with a wave at the dismantled box in front of it. "If I were to do that, it's not really repairing, just wiping away the traces to make my own item."

"And would that be so bad?" Harry asks, "Making your own item? You could repair it and recast the spell—make it as it was?"

"If i wanted to do that I could just start afresh. Or with something that is beyond repair. If I did that, it wouldn't be this item anymore would it?"

Draco traces his hand over the side of the box, almost affectionately.

"If I can fix this by hand, then I can put the spell back together."

Draco pulls his hand away from the box, and motions at Harry to come closer. Harry moves to stand in front of Draco, the bench between them, and Draco reaches out with his left hand for Harry's right arm, grabbing his wrist and pulling Harry's hand towards the box. Harry splays his hand out, resisting a little—afraid of touching it, of breaking something that seems so fragile, delicate, that Draco's obviously spent time on and clearly cares for. But Draco just pulls his hand to just above the box, holds it there.

"Can you feel that there?" Draco asks. "The original spell is still there, and it wants to go back, to reset. All it takes is a little push and then"—Draco clicks his fingers of his free hand—"snap, everything will go back into place."

Harry can't feel the spell, can only feel the press of Draco's hand, fingers wrapped around his wrist and palm against the back of Harry's hand. Harry's not looking at the magic box anymore, instead caught on the sight of Draco's other hand wrapped around his arm, fingers digging in, the contrast standing out against Harry's skin. Draco looks up at Harry, dragging Harry's attention with him, and there's a flush on his face, not heat but something else, and a grin, pure. Harry can't look away.

"It might be a bit more work, but some things are worth preserving." 

Draco looks back at the box, releasing Harry's hand, and Harry brings his hand back to his side, feels the warm echo of Draco's handprint. Draco's looking back at the star box, but Harry's looking at him, at the way Draco's looking at his work, the pride and joy—and Harry gets it, perfectly, why Draco's here, and not with the Aurors anymore. He's a bit jealous, if he's honest with himself, a feeling deep inside him that Harry doesn't feel proud of. The little voice saying _it's not fair_ that Draco got out, that he's happy doing this while Harry's still heading into the Department every day, sitting at his desk feeling not pride but just… hollowness inside of him.

It makes his stomach churn, the weird mix of anger, jealousy, and the hot burn of shame at himself for feeling it at all.

Harry does his best to push it down.

"Thanks," he says. "For explaining. And showing me. I get it now. I guess I can see why you gave up being an Auror for this."

"I didn't quit the Aurors for this," Draco says, his face shutting down, earlier pleased mood gone. "I quit for me. And I don't feel like it was giving up anything." 

"Right." Harry can feel he's fucked up somehow—stepped in it somehow, and it feels inevitable, like the sour feeling in his stomach tainted it all. "Sorry, right, I didn't mean—" Harry leaves the sentence unfinished. He doesn't know how to correct his misstep.

"Sorry, it's just." Draco runs his hand through his hair, pulling it back from his eyes. It falls straight back over them, and Draco looks at Harry through the strands of hair. "Sensitive subject I guess. I left the Aurors for me, not any other reason. The distinction is important. Important to me."

"Alright." Harry lets it go, as much as he wants to prod. It's not his business really, and who is he to waltz in here on a Saturday afternoon and ask Draco all about his motivations? Well an Auror, actually—who often has to ask people about their motivations. But he's not working, and Draco's not a suspect.

Just an ex-colleague. Someone Harry misses. Someone he hopes to see again.

Hopefully a friend. 

"It's been nice seeing you," Harry says, truthfully. "Maybe we could do this again?" Harry's hands go to his thighs, feels the material of his jeans and grips at it, feeling the muscle and material pull beneath his fingers. "It'd be nice to catch up again." 

Draco seems to think it over for a moment, his hand coming out to rest against the bench, fingers tapping against the wood, too gentle to make a noise. Then his hands grip the wood harder and he looks at Harry. "Why not now?" he asks.

"Umm." Harry's only plans involve a freezer dahl, a beer from his fridge and eating dinner at the table with his dying ficus. The usual for his Saturday night, not that Harry wants to admit that. "Sure. Why not?"

"Don't let me force you there Potter."

"No no," Harry says quickly. "I just. Wasn't expecting it. I'd like that though. If you do."

"Seems like doesn't it?" Draco says. "Well then, I know a place, so unless you've got objections I say we head there now." Draco stands up, pushing away from the bench.

"What _right_ now?" Harry asks, looking around. The shop is still as empty as it was when Harry came in. Just Draco, and Miss Black sitting behind him. It doesn't seem like the busiest of shops, but Harry can't imagine that means Draco can just leave off whenever he wants. "Can you just do that? What if someone comes by? Won't you get in trouble?" 

"If they wanted to come by they should have done so earlier in the day honestly. If they've got a problem they can take it up with me." Draco lets the words hang as he shoots a spell Harry doesn't recognise towards the door, and the shop dims again. "I own the shop Potter."

"Oh." 

"Now. I think we should get out of here before anyone _does_ come. I can't _stand_ the riff-raff that come through this door," Draco says, with a pointed look in Harry's direction. 

"Alright," Harry says, taking a step back from the bench, but then hesitates, waiting for Draco to guide his next movement.

Draco pulls a cloth from somewhere, placing it over the box and his tools.

"Don't touch, Miss," Draco says, with a look at the seemingly sleeping Kneazle. She flicks an ear at Draco, and that seems to be enough for Draco, because he nods. "Shall we?" Draco walks to a door, and pulls on it, holding it open and standing aside, obviously waiting for Harry to walk through.

Harry steps through, not sure what to expect.

It's still the shop, Harry realises. He can see furniture, with teapots and cups sitting on a wooden bureau. There are art pieces against the wall, and as far as Harry can see there's no difference between this and the other half of the shop, except when Harry reaches out a hand towards a mirror; gold, being held up by two naked cherubic figures and littered with grapes—and who would even want such a thing—there's something that feels different.

"What is this?" Harry asks, as Draco pulls the door closed and taps it with his wand. There's a work bench that looks exactly like the one Draco had been sitting at only a moment before.

"This is the Muggle side of the shop." Draco says, matter of fact, like it's something Harry should have expected.

"You have a Muggle side of the shop?"

"Of course." 

"You collect Muggle ware. You serve Muggles." 

There must be something in his voice, the incredulity or disbelief that Harry can feel inside of him seeping through, and Draco pulls up short, turning around to face Harry. He's standing next to what looks like kitchenware, or maybe a washing machine, something round with a crank handle on the side and not even Harry with his upbringing can identify what that is. There's a spinning wheel Harry can see in the corner behind Draco and it seems mildly ridiculous, Draco surrounded by this litany of wares that he can't understand.

"I do." Draco says, voice hard now, none of the teasing from before. 

"I—" Harry tries 

"Did you think I wouldn't?" Draco asks, his voice like ice. "Did you think I still felt that Muggles were less than? It's been a long time since those days, Potter. I've come a long way since my school years. I was wrong then, I was misinformed, and I believed things I shouldn't have, did things I'll never be able to make up for. Having a Muggle and a wizard shop was a purely business reason. But if you think I'm still that person, I think I'd rather see you out."

Draco's face is flushed red, and he's standing as straight as Harry's ever seen him, still except for his breathing, steady but pointed, like Draco is trying to keep it under control.

"I was just surprised." He can't think of anything else to say, except that. "I didn't expect you to be running a Muggle shop." 

"To be fair, I wouldn't have expected it of me either." Draco's hands are clasped by his sides, and Harry thinks he can see a slight tremor to them. Draco clears his throat, and his right hand comes up, runs through his hair only for it to fall down again, and he looks away from Harry at the shop around them. "I guess it… It puts me on edge." Draco shrugs, looks back to him, and there's something on his face, like a question unasked. "You've seen me at my worst."

"I have," Harry says. "But you're right. You've changed, I've seen that and… I didn't mean to make you feel like I still think you're that person." Harry takes a deep breath, lets it out. "We've always been good at pushing at each other's sore spots haven't we?" Harry says with a laugh, brings his hand up to his neck, a little ashamed. "Seems I do it even when I don't mean to."

Draco takes a deep slow breath, the sound loud in the silent room. He sighs on the exhale, and his body relaxes a little, only perceptible because Harry's watching, and he couldn't say what's changed exactly.

Draco nods. 

"Well. I need a drink I think. Shall we go?"

* * *

"Wisened Wines," Harry reads aloud when Draco stops in front of a shop front. The glass front reveals a smallish interior, with small wooden tables and a big wooden wine rack in the middle of the floor. There are a few people inside, but most of the tables are empty.

Draco pushes the door open for Harry, and Harry walks inside.

"This wine bar also serves Muggles and wizards," Draco says, voice low, leaning in close, and Harry can feel the puff of air against his skin. "This is the Muggle side. The wizard side gets a bit busy for me on a Saturday night."

 _Why?_ Harry doesn't ask, even if he wants to know. He tries to remember to park the question for later, adding to the ever growing list he already has from today.

A waitress catches Draco's eye and she waves at him in acknowledgement. Draco nods back before walking to it, Harry following in his stead. 

"Is that common around here, shops and bars having both a wizarding and Muggle side?"

"It is," Draco says, taking the menu, and their conversation halts as someone comes past with a bottle of wine sliding it to Draco with a "Thought I'd get you started with your usual". There's an obvious camaraderie there, as Draco exchanges words with the person, and Harry distracts himself by looking at the table, not wanting to feel like he's eavesdropping on the conversation. There's a glass with a little candle in the middle, still unlit, and it's that which Harry turns his attention to until there's a glass placed in front of him, and Harry looks up to see Draco pouring the wine into it. "The Muggle and wizarding areas are located close enough that it's a simple thing to manage," Draco continues as if there had been no interruption, "and there's enough traffic on either side to make it worthwhile. The wizarding neighbourhood was dying off just a few years ago, and now it's coming back to life."

"Is there much to it?" Harry asks, genuinely curious. "Setting it all up?"

"Why do you want to know?" Draco asks, his voice teasing. "Not checking up on me are you, Potter?" Draco lifts his glass to his lips, taking a long slow sip, and Harry copies. Harry's not much of a wine drinker and the taste is stronger than he usually goes for, making his mouth feel dry, but it's also full of flavour. "It's a lot of work to get the permits approved. Especially if you're two Slytherins going into business together and wanting to do the spellwork yourself. The shop is mine and Pansy's—" Draco elaborates to Harry at his confusion. "She enjoys sourcing the _antiquities_ for our shop, enjoys more finding _bargains_ that make work for me. But yes, it took a lot of effort. Pansy and I did the work and it took weeks, but if our friendship could survive an ill-fated attempt at dating in sixth year, it could survive that."

Harry tries to imagine Draco and Pansy setting it all up. It's difficult, drawing into the very fibre of the buildings themselves. It's impressive. He says as much. 

Draco flushes a little and takes another sip of wine. 

They order food, and talk, and drink another bottle of wine, too. The bar is busier, and Harry watches as Draco peruses the wine rack. He looks in his element, staring at wines, and he probably is. It's not what Harry would have expected, finding Draco running a shop serving and hanging out with Muggles. 

"Can I ask you something?" Harry asks when Draco returns to the table carrying another bottle of red. Draco tips his head, raises an eyebrow either in a _yes_ or more likely _didn't you just do exactly that_ , but either way Harry takes it as permission to continue. "You don't have to answer if you don't want, but you said you left the Aurors for you—can you… I guess I am wondering why you did?"

Draco nods, but doesn't answer, instead picking up the wine bottle and pouring them fresh glasses, hand wrapped effortlessly around the wine glass like he was born to do so, and that's probably true. Draco Malfoy, learning his way around a wine bottle before he could probably walk. There's not a drip on the glass, but Draco slides the cloth along the rim of the bottle anyway before placing it back on the table. Draco holds the one glass like he's supporting something precious, delicately, and Harry lifts his own, feeling awkward and clumsy and _inadequate_ in the way his fingers wrap around it, nothing like the hold Draco has. Draco takes a long slow drink from the glass and when Harry takes a gulp of his own, his face feels decidedly flushed.

"I never wanted to be an Auror," Draco says, and it takes Harry a moment to remember the question he'd asked. "I did it because people didn't think I could, or thought I should disappear after the war. It felt like a way to make amends, and to show them all up at the same time. Then I stayed because Mother was so happy to see me making something of myself and rehabilitating the Malfoy name—her thoughts, not mine," Draco adds. 

"So what made you stop?"

"It wasn't any big thing." Draco leans backwards, a hand tracing the glass base of his wine glass. "I realised I had to stop living my life according to other people's expectations. And that there was never going to be some big sign saying _this is what you need to do_ , only me, and my decisions. So I quit, and then I sat around my house for a few weeks worrying I'd made the wrong decision. And when Pansy suggested we go travelling I took her up on the offer."

Harry takes another drink of wine, his mind racing. He never would have thought Draco would be the sort to stay in a job because someone _else_ expected it—but then who _is_ the sort to do it? Who would think the boy who fought off Voldemort would do the same?

"The idea for the shop got floated one night over too much wine, and then the next day we nursed our hangovers and decided to go in for it." Draco grins. "And now we have it."

* * *

"This has been pleasant," Draco says with another sip of wine. Draco's hands wrap around the wine glass like they've done it a hundred times before. He has an effortlessness about him that Harry envies just a little—the way Draco can just ease into things and still look so elegant at the same time.

"It has," Harry agrees.

"I would like to know however," Draco continues, "what your intentions are Potter. As this feels a bit like a date."

Harry's stomach drops and his mouth goes dry. He swallows heavily, reaching for the water to wet his mouth and give him time before he answers.

"Yeah," Harry answers, "it does a bit. Is that alright with you?" 

Harry's voice sounds uncertain, even to himself, and he kind of wants to kick himself. Harry James Potter. Can fight against the biggest threat to the wizarding world and put his life on the line at his job every damn day, but can't even say what he wants.

"Oh," Draco says, as if he wasn't expecting that answer. He inspects his wine glass, clearly stalling for time. "Didn't know you were queer." 

Harry feels his face flush and hopes it won't be too obvious under the dim lights of the bar. "It's new," he acknowledges.

"How new?"

"New enough." He's been on two failed dates, had one shit kiss, and had Dean offer to show him what it's really like to kiss a bloke—which he declined, even if he'd been a little tempted. He doesn't particularly feel like sharing any of that though. But he knows it's… That some people might take issue with that. "Is that a problem?"

"Why would it be?"

"I'm not exactly experienced," Harry says, and he hopes Draco understands that for what he means it as. Hopes he won't ask for more explanation. "Or like… I don't know. I know it can be a bit like 'is he just experimenting?'"

"Are you?" Draco asks, eyebrows raised over his glass of wine.

"No. But like. I know people might think that I'm trying it on for size. Or because I've been with girls in the past." One girl, mostly. A few failed dates and attempts that were aborted before they even got started. 

"There's no minimum requirement to being gay. Or Bisexual. Queer," Draco says, gaze pinning Harry firmly from across the table. His eyes are a deep steel grey, like the sky before a storm, and the way he's staring Harry down reminds him of watching the clouds coming towards you with no shelter in sight. Inevitable. Inescapable. "You don't need to speak Polari or know where the nearest Mollyhouse is. The only thing you need to know is that you are."

Harry's words escape him.

"Do you know that?" Draco asks.

The question feels more important than Harry can answer. _Do you know who you are?_ , echoes around his head, _Do you know what you're doing?_ , does too, and Harry doesn't, but then, that's never stopped him before. 

"I know I'm attracted to guys," Harry says. "I know I find you attractive." In lieu of _I know I'm attracted to you_.

"Of course you do Potter. Who doesn't?" Draco says with a flashy grin. He takes a sip of his wine, finishes off the glass. "That's enough."

* * *

There's a chill in the air when they walk out of the bar. It's still busy, and their table is immediately taken by another couple. When Harry looks back he sees them leaning in towards one another, their hands brushing together as they look over a shared menu, and Harry feels a pang of—want or something like it, for the ease of their shared intimacy. Draco's pulling a coat out when Harry pulls his eyes away, from somewhere Harry can't see, and there's a part of him that wants to admonish him for what is clearly a risk in front of _Muggles_ but he just… doesn't. 

It feels nice to let it go.

Draco starts walking, and Harry falls behind him. It's comfortable, even in the silence, and Harry just... lets himself enjoy it. The weather is nice, and he can see the moon, even if the streetlights are too much for him to see the stars. The sounds of the town, of people _out on the town_ are all around them, and Harry feels nervous, uncertain of where this is going (literally or physically) but it doesn't bother him the way it might usually. He's okay with not knowing. 

When Draco pulls to a stop, Harry realises they've been walking to his shop, and he stops in front of it. 

"This is me."

"Your shop?" Harry asks.

"I moved to live at the shop," Draco says. "You're welcome to come in for tea, or another drink. No strings attached." 

Even with the disclaimer it feels loaded, and Harry stands out the front of the shop and tries to work out if he does.

"Can I kiss you?" 

It feels silly to ask the thing, but Harry wants to, wants to now where he can still have the option of heading home to the safety of his own bedroom if he fucks this up.

Draco nods, but he doesn't make a move, and when it's obvious he won't, Harry steps up to him. 

Draco's a little bit taller, something Harry's known from working with him, but like this it's more obvious, the way Harry has to tip his head up to look at Draco's lips. It's not something he's had to do before, not in his limited experience, and there's something about it that makes Harry's blood run hot. He's not done this before, and he stalls, hands still at his sides, and he wants to put them on Draco, but isn't sure how, isn't sure of anything. 

Draco takes pity on him, or maybe grows impatient, and he closes the final distance between them, a hand coming up to rest at Harry's stomach and the other sliding to hold at Harry's neck, and then Draco is finally closing the distance.

It's not like kisses he's had before—and Harry knows enough to know that no two kisses are the same. Draco is gentle, a soft brush of his lips, then another, then he presses his lips more firmly against Harry's and Harry gets with the program, pressing back. Draco's hand on his neck feels like fire, and Harry's head is spinning, and it seems so easy to open his mouth when Draco flicks his tongue gently against Harry's lips. Harry wants _more_ too, and it's the easiest thing in the world to open his lips. Harry licks his way into Draco's mouth, tasting wine, and their shared food, and the unique taste of _Draco_ that he'd only get to taste like this. Harry wants more, and his hands finally move, one sliding to Draco's hip, the other half wrapping around his back, holding Draco closer as their bodies press together.

Harry doesn't realise he's not breathing until his lungs start to scream, forcing himself to break the kiss. He doesn't move far, only pulling back enough to catch his breath. Harry's eyes are closed—when did that happen?—and he opens them to see Draco looking flushed, panting just like Harry, little puffs of air Harry can feel against his own mouth, and it should be a bit gross, but it isn't. His world feels like it's still spinning a little, and Harry's pressed Draco up against the door of his shop.

"Would you like to come in?" Draco asks, his voice quiet, like he's trying to get his breath back as well—and Harry did that.

Harry takes the moment. He can still feel Draco's lips on his, the faint taste of the wine they'd been drinking, the food they shared. There's a tingle, like the ghost of touch and Draco's still standing in front of him, a hand on his stomach while Harry's is resting on Draco's hip.

There's no pressure in Draco's words. Harry knows this is a serious question; for all they've had between them, the fights and the competition and whatever this is, burgeoning, Harry knows he could leave, and Draco wouldn't hold it against him. He's made that obvious tonight.

But he doesn't want it to end here.

His stomach feels like it has wings inside it.

"I would," he says, and drops his lips down for another kiss.

Harry follows Draco inside, through the front of the shop, to a door he'd not noticed before—not that he'd been looking for one. Draco leads him upstairs, up a thin stairway, and when Harry steps through he takes a moment to take it all in.

It's not what he would have expected, not that Harry knows what he would have expected. 

The furniture in here is as old as downstairs. It's all one big floor, a kitchen, a table and chairs across from it. On the other half of the room are sofas, facing a fireplace bracketed by two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, full to the brim, and Hermione would just love to see those. There's a lone table in the middle of the room, almost covered in opened books and paper, and Harry moves closer, intrigued.

The lamp on the table lights up as Harry approaches, the coloured glass lighting up the table and splashing colour across the ceiling.

From closer Harry recognises Draco's writing in some of the books, the neatly-curled penmanship. There are drawings, too, the innards of things Harry's never seen before. There's a haphazard notebook shoved off to the side, and it's this that draws Harry's attention. It's filled with scribbles, the sort of scratchy pictures and mindless doodlings Harry recognises as Draco's from school. There's Miss Black there, and a girl with bobbed hair with a speech bubble that says ' _it was such a steal daaaarling_ '.

A throat clears behind him.

"Being nosy again, Potter?" 

"Your artistry?" Harry asks, pointing to the book. 

Draco huffs a laugh. "Yes. I'm thinking if this doesn't work out I might start drawing for the _Daily Prophet_."

"Add a little class to that joint?" Harry asks.

"It's about time really," Draco laughs again and walks over to hand a glass of water to Harry, sipping on his own.

"This isn't what I would have expected your flat to look like," Harry says honestly, holding his own glass in his hands. He reaches out, tracing a finger over the table. It's old too, and there's a thrum present that speaks of a magic inside it, though for what purpose Harry can't tell.

"Really? What were you expecting? A Slytherin colour scheme? Snakes on every wall."

Harry chokes on the sip of water he's just taken, but when Harry finishes trying to drink his water down the wrong way, and looks at Draco, Draco's grinning at him. 

"I don't know," Harry admits. "I don't think I expected any of this." Harry waves around the room, but he means the shop, Draco working here, maybe even their chats too, dinner, everything.

"I've always enjoyed working with older things," Draco says, and he runs his fingers over a thigh-high piece of furniture, pushes against it, and the furniture moves, rotating slowly around. It's a bookshelf Harry notices now, watching as it rotates, showing off the spines of different books as it does so. Harry drags his attention back to Draco when he speaks again. "But I did go through a stage when I… wanted nothing to do with older magical items…" Draco trails off. "Some things shouldn't be repaired. I didn't always know that."

"But let's not talk about that." Draco finishes his drink, sending it off to the kitchen with a wave. "Let me show you why this lounge has lasted the test of time, and why it was worth the two months it took me to repair it."

Draco takes Harry's glass, placing them both on the table—on coasters Harry can't recall seeing—and then Draco's hands are on his chest, pressing back against him. The hands press in and Harry stands there until Draco pushes his weight against Harry and Harry understands he means for Harry to _move_. Draco guides him, pressing him backwards across the room, moving Harry sideways with an arm on his shoulder. Harry just lets himself be pushed, feels his stomach coiling tight in anticipation. He doesn't know where Draco's directing him until his legs bump into something, and Draco presses him against it until Harry's legs fold and he finds himself on the soft cushions of a sofa.

It is comfortable, Harry can admit that, but he really couldn't care less about the sofa when Draco is standing in front of him. His hands had flown up when he'd fallen to sit, grabbing for something to hold onto, and they found their way to Draco's hips, feeling the soft material against his hands and _Draco_ underneath that.

Harry could let go, but instead he holds on, looking up at Draco. Harry spreads his legs a little, just enough that if Draco wanted to step closer he could. Draco raises an eyebrow, and Harry feels his body run hot, a flush of heat that runs from his face straight to his cock.

His head's spinning, and it's not the wine.

When Draco steps in closer Harry forgets how to breathe.

Draco brings his hands to rest on Harry's shoulders, a thumb presses against Harry's neck, and when he breathes again he can feel the way it rests gently there. He wants to close his eyes, to lean into the hands, but he can't look away from Draco.

"I want to join you there," Draco says and Harry's mouth runs dry. "And kiss you again. But I need to say something first." 

Those words send a chill through him. The heat disappears and Harry's stomach drops through the chair. _Don't_ he almost wants to say, to stop the words which will come tumbling out of Draco's mouth and whatever he has to say that will inevitably put an end to the mood of the night. He can't find the words, his mouth drying up, and Harry's fingers hold tighter, a grip that Draco must be able to feel but doesn't react to. Eventually Harry finds himself nodding, despite it all.

"I need you to know that you don't have to do anything here. I want nothing more than to ravage you, but I only want that if you're sure it's what you want, too. We can just kiss, or I can make us tea and we can chat some more, or you can go to bed. The sofa transforms into a very acceptable bed, even if Pansy refuses to use it."

Draco's gaze locks with Harry's, and there's something in his voice that cuts straight through him.

"You shouldn't do this unless it's something you _want_ to do, and it's important to me that you know that Harry. Tell me you know that."

 _Why?_ Harry wants to ask, but the tone in Draco's voice says he's only asking for one reason. Harry's voice can't work.

Harry's had sex, sex with women anyway. There was Ginny, and after that a few relationships, but nothing that turned serious. Harry's never really done the casual thing before, always felt like he couldn't imagine just going home with someone 

This doesn't feel like that. 

But then Draco isn't just anybody. It doesn't feel like any of the awkward first dates Harry's experienced before, and he feels nervous, yes, but he feels comfortable, too, here with Draco.

"Harry," Draco says, when the silence has gone on too long, and Draco is looking down at him with something else in his eyes now. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, and he feels Draco's hands start to lift, feels Draco start to lean away. Harry moves quickly, one hand trapping Draco's where it rests on his. "I don't know what I want. But I know I want to do this."

Harry drops his hand from where he'd been holding Draco's, reaching for Draco instead, following what he _wants_ for once, and holds Draco still as Harry closes the distance between them to kiss Draco again. It feels right like this, and as much as looking up at Draco had been nice, this feels better, lining up to meeting Draco in the middle. Draco can sit in his lap another time, and Harry groans at the thought, opening his lips. Draco flicks his tongue just a little and it's enough for Harry, to open his mouth wider and lick his way into Draco's mouth.

Draco's starting to feel familiar already. The feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the way he leans into Harry, the hands Harry feels like he knows already, just from all the time he's spent watching them in the past. Harry presses his body against Draco, and Draco presses back too. Harry can feel every press of Draco's body against his, and wants to feel more. His hands roam as if they're acting on desire and not thought, roaming over Draco's body, one hand slides to Draco's lower back, pulling him in even tighter, holding Draco against him, and his right hand finds its way to Draco's hip. Draco's shirt is barely tucked in, and it's the easiest thing to do to sneak his fingers underneath it, to find Draco's skin, warm beneath his touch.

Harry's fingers brush against the waistband of Draco's trousers, ghosting over the skin just above it. He feels Draco twitch, feels the inhale of his breath as Harry's fingers trace the line of it, and just the hint of a touch is enough to send a rush of blood to his rapidly swelling cock. 

Harry can feel Draco's cock pressing against him. It's warm, and the firm press of another cock is something he's never had before, but the evidence of Draco's arousal only makes him hotter, and Harry wants to get his hands on it.

He pushes his fingers beneath the waistband of Draco's trousers and pants. It's tight enough that Harry's not got much room to move, but he feels skin, the curl of pubes, and then— _yes_ —his fingers brush against the swell of a cock not his own.

Draco breaks the kiss with a gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and he half curls his body into Harry, dropping his head to rest on Harry's shoulder. It pushes his groin away enough that Harry can shove his hand down further, fingers making a terrible attempt at stroking Draco's cock. His arm feels awkward and in the way, but fuck if it isn't one of the hottest things Harry's done.

"Fuck," Draco gasps, the words hot against Harry's shoulder.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, the words tumbling out.

Draco pulls back, enough to look at him "Yeah?" he asks, "Do you want to?"

Harry nods.

"Okay." Draco says, and Harry's hand is still down Draco's pants. He strokes his fingers again, feeling the hot head of Draco's cock, and Draco's hand flies to hold Harry's arm, not pushing away, just holding, sending a flush of pleasure through Harry just at the simple touch. "Bed," Draco says, gasping, again when Harry brushes his fingers, and Harry agrees readily.

Bed is upstairs again, a luxurious-looking room with a large window, but Harry pays it all no mind because Draco pushes him towards the bed, and Harry goes.

Draco strips his clothes, and Harry follows suit, his eyes raking over Draco as he does. It's not the first time he's seen Draco's body, but it's the first time like this, first time naked and unflinching. The first time he's allowed to look, properly, and Harry does.

Draco's changed since the Aurors. Gone is the athletic physique required by the DMLE, and without it Draco looks… _softer_ is the word that comes to mind, although Harry would never admit it to Draco. Even if Draco doesn't run the miles anymore, he is still perfectly capable of taking Harry out. 

Draco seems… lighter. Not physically, but in the way he holds himself, in the way he doesn't seem rigid or like he's on high alert, and Harry has to step forward, to take Draco in his hands and feel it for himself.

Kissing Draco is becoming one his favourite things to do. Draco's mouth opens for him so well, and Harry's always loved kissing. Draco's naked, and Harry takes advantage of it. Harry's cock bumps against Draco's and pushes up between them as their bodies come together. Harry runs his hands over Draco, feeling the soft skin of his body, roaming over Draco's arms and shoulders—feeling that one divet Harry's seen from the collarbone accident that never really healed right, then over his spine, feeling the concave of his back. Harry's hands find the swell of Draco's arse and Draco's body presses closer to him again. The pressure is just too much. Harry's head is spinning, and he breaks the kiss to gasp out.

"Bed," Draco says, with a shove, and Harry goes, lets himself be pushed down. Draco follows him to kneel on the bed beside him, laying kisses against Harry's lips.

"Want to fuck my thighs?" Draco asks

Harry's read about it, seen pictures of it too because when he finally admitted to himself that maybe he liked blokes _like that_ , the most obvious thing to do seemed to be to read about what blokes got up to. It's just one of the things that got him hot, had him jerking off against the sheets and coming far sooner than he'd like to admit. And also sealed that yes, he was _very_ interested in blokes like that.

"Yes." Harry nods emphatically. His hands flying up to hold onto Draco's hips. He does want, _so much_.

"Lie back," Draco says, pressing against Harry's chest.

Harry watches, his mouth dry, as Draco takes Harry's glasses off and pulls away. He sits on the bed as he pulls out a lotion from the bedside table and coats a hand with it. Harry's cock is so hard it _hurts_ not to touch, so Harry places his hands on his thighs instead, digging his fingers in to distract himself. Draco lies back on the bed, hand moving down his body, ignoring his own flushed and hard cock to slide between his legs. His hand moves and Harry can't see what he's doing, but he knows Draco's spreading the lotion there, slicking himself up for Harry's cock.

Draco slides his hand out, rolls to his side, and when he shoots a look back over at Harry it's _come hither_ and _bring it on_ all at once, complete with Draco's own brand of cockiness. Harry doesn't hesitate, sliding behind Draco as his cock brushes up against Draco's arse. 

It takes a bit of shuffling around, Draco manoeuvring Harry's body to get him into place. It's the fumble that comes with a new bedfellow, and it could be awkward but there's none of that between them. Draco reaches his hand behind him to pull Harry in tighter, opens up his legs, and when Harry's cock slides between them, Draco locks his thighs together around it.

It's hot and tight and slick, and it's so much Harry lets out a broken moan that he does a shit job of smothering against Draco's skin. 

Draco chuckles in front of him, and Harry thrusts against him in retaliation, only to force moans from the both of them.

Draco's hand is still reaching back, holding Harry tight to him, and Harry reaches around Draco, his hand coming to rest on Draco's stomach, pulling them even closer. 

Harry's never had much rhythm, and this is no exception; he thrusts jerkily into Draco, but then Draco takes over and it turns into a steady pace of Harry's cock sliding between Draco's legs. It's hot, so hot, and Harry has to get his hand on Draco, has to feel how this is affecting him too. Harry's hand drifts down, and Draco's hand not wrapped around Harry is resting low on his abdomen, fingers against his pubic hair. Harry slides his hand over them to get to Draco's cock, wrapping his fingers around it. Draco's rhythm breaks as he jerks into Harry's hand.

They start to pick up the pace and Harry has to bury his head against Draco's neck to breathe hot and wet against the skin there. He presses open-mouthed kisses against Draco's skin as the rhythm and pressure builds between them. Harry can feel the way Draco's breathing heavily too, and Harry's shaking hard enough that he can't tell if it's just him or the both of them. His breathing and thrusts are growing fast, erratic, and when Draco's thighs clench tighter around his cock, Harry groans, biting down against the skin, as he comes between Draco's thighs, slicking him up further and then thrusting more, making a mess of Draco, too. 

Harry's thrusts slow, and Draco releases some of the pressure on his thighs. Harry rests his forehead against Draco's shoulders as he tries to get his breath back under control. It's only when fingers brush against the hand still on Draco's cock that Harry remembers his hands exist—and that Draco's still hard in his.

Draco's fingers wrap around Harry's hand on his cock and Draco guides the rhythm as they stroke him together. Harry's pressed so tight against Draco's back that he can feel Draco's shuddered breathing, and feels him break apart in his hands.

* * *

Harry startles awake, jerking with it. There's a feeling of terror. He's in an unfamiliar place, and he flounders for a moment, reaching for his wand, or his glasses. There's a person beside him, and Harry starts to pull away, or lash out, he's not sure which, before an arm slides across his body, not pinning him but just a firm pressure against his chest.

"Shhh," a voice—Draco, he remembers now—whispers soothingly. Harry's body relaxes a little, without even thinking it, even if his heart is still racing. "Was it a bad dream?"

Harry nods, even though he's not sure if Draco can see him. 

"I still get them," Draco confesses, and Harry stills, wants to deny it all of a sudden, take back the vulnerability he's shared. It seems worse when he thinks that Draco might know what some of his bad dreams are about—a war and children and the fact that the loss didn't even stop there, that there are still so many children Harry's failing to save every day, but that he doesn't think he can keep on doing it regardless.

Harry wants to ask if Draco has the same bad dreams.

More than that he wants to ask what they're doing here. He hadn't planned to fall asleep. Last he remembers was Draco getting up to fetch a flannel, but Harry feels well-rested in the way he rarely does, which would be nice, if it weren't for the fact he's awake _now_ and his mind is very much alert. 

Should he make his excuses and leave now? Should he ask what they're doing? What this is?

Harry doesn't know.

There's a pressure against the bed, and Harry tenses, ready to jump into action, but Draco's arm tightens over his chest, and he whispers, right into his ear, "It's just Miss Black."

As if summoned, there's a weight on his leg, stepping on and then walking over him, and then she's sliding between the two of them, pressing Draco's body away from him as he feels her turn in circles, and then lie down. 

"You're a good girl aren't you," Draco says, and Harry can tell from the movement of the sheets that Draco's patting her, can hear her rumbling purr in response. Usually when he has bad dreams Harry has to get out of bed, turn on all the lights, and stay up until they fade away, but tonight they seem to have already disappeared into the night, chased away by the loud rumble of a Kneazle's purr. 

Draco's arm wraps across his chest again, lighting Harry up where his hand rests, and Harry lets his eyes drift closed. 

Maybe he doesn't need to know the answers right this moment.

He thinks, for now, that might be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥


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